A Marathon and More, J.C. Laird [top 100 novels .TXT] 📗

It was 1987, the year of my fortieth birthday, and I made the questionable decision to run a marathon. As most of you know, that’s defined as 26.2 miles. But how and why I actually made such a leap of faith is still a mystery to me. In my defense, I had been jogging on and off for ten years and had participated in a number of races, ranging from 3 miles up to, and even including, a half-marathon. But to double that distance…?

And I’m not built to be a distance runner, standing 6’2” and carrying 220 pounds, thick in the legs and rump. It would have made more sense to give myself a gift of power tools, some cool clothes, a newer car—my 78’ Ford van was well past its prime—or maybe take my girlfriend, Marsha, on a nice vacation.

Ahhh, Marsha, bless her, was understanding of the whole undertaking. Dark-haired, a foot shorter and half my weight, she lacked nothing when it came to spunk. When I told her what I planned to do, she looked at me for a few seconds, cocked her pretty head and smiled. “Well, John, I think you’re nuts, but that’s not exactly breaking news. So, what can I do to help?”

Having made this questionable vow—and I do not take these things lightly—I realized that I was going to have to invest in a certain amount of training to cover that daunting distance without seriously crippling myself. So faced with the possibility of pavement pounding, pulsating pain, I figured I’d better do a bit of research.

Now, since this was in the primitive, pre-internet age, the research was done through old fashioned books and magazines, as well as talking—“networking” in today’s parlance—with other runners in shorter, more reasonable races.

Eventually, I compiled a training schedule based on all my shiny new knowledge, with the literal guarantee from several authors that, if I followed their advice, I would finish a marathon relatively pain free. Right…

I selected and, set my goal for, the “Detroit Free Press International Marathon” in October of that year. It was international because it started in Windsor, Ontario, Canada and finished in Detroit, Michigan, U.S.A. It sounded pretty cool; they would be closing the Detroit/ Windsor Tunnel that connected the two countries to vehicular traffic, during the first segment of the race, meaning we would be running under the Detroit River.

Goals set, training regimen locked and loaded and I was off and um…well…running. During the ensuing months I logged approximately 1000 miles; I following my training program religiously. I kept the training runs as interesting as possible, plotting different routes and terrain, never taking the same course twice in a row, running them in opposite directions, even using the high school track occasionally. Once a month or so I’d throw in road races of varying distances for added spice and experience. There were no iPods or MP-3’s in those days. Hell, we didn’t even have cell phones. It was definitely the technological Dark Ages for us runners.

The training costs were relatively inexpensive. The bulk of my training was done during the spring and summer, so my capital outlay for basic clothing was modest—t-shirts, shorts and socks. But running shoes, you can’t scrimp on those. You can run in almost any type of clothing, but you can’t skimp on the running shoes. The old saying “you get what you pay for” applies here. Cheap shoes will hurt you. Good shoes will run you—no pun intended—extra bucks in your training, but the cost is well worth it.

I did not belong to a running club; I had no running partner to share the burden of the long training miles. I plodded through all those long months of accumulating mileage by myself…technically…sort of… except for my diminutive, non-running Marsha.

She cooked healthy meals for me. She went through numerous tubes of Ben-Gay administering my back and leg massages to alleviate the inevitable aches and pains. She encouraged me to keep going when my spirits were lagging and I began questioning myself and my goals. If I couldn’t finish a long run, I’d find a payphone and call her, and she would hop in her car and drive out and pick me up. Oh, yes, for you youngsters, payphones were…well, you put money in a coin slot in a big phone box, the handset was connected by a metal cord to the phone box and, geez—just go Google it.

But the times that really stand out in my mind were the late night long runs. I worked shift work and, after a 3 pm–11 pm swing-shift, I occasionally had to head out for a scheduled long run, like a 10 to 12-miler or so, after midnight. Flat Rock, the small city where I lived, was a semi-rural area and, in those ancient days, there weren’t any convenience stores or gas stations open for necessary water stops at one and two in the morning. And hydration, as any distance runner will preach ad nauseam to you, is always of paramount importance.

So, trudging down the road in the wee hours, I’d find Marsha sitting in her car at a prearranged location, reading a book by flashlight, waiting for me. I’d come lumbering up, stop, she’d give me water, see if I needed anything, offer words of encouragement and then drive on to the next rendezvous—and wait for my next arrival.

But what of the marathon, you say?

I had followed my detailed training program diligently so, in the end, the marathon was just “frosting on the cake;” a cake that I had baked faithfully during all those long miles over the spring and summer. There would be no dramatic race day stories or heroic finishes, at least not the kind that one would expect…

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I was among approximately 5,000 other runners who showed up on a crisp, sunny October morning near a city park in Windsor, Ontario, Canada. I was milling around the starting line with my fellow runners, slowly moving back in the group to mingle with the slower runners closer to the rear of the huge amorphous mob.

I had made my final trip to the port-o-potty. My muscles were chock-full of carbohydrates, starting with Marsha’s big spaghetti dinner the previous night, to her stack of pancakes at 5:30 am race morning. All systems were go. I was ready.

As the 9:00 am start time neared, I took off my old grey sweat pants and sweatshirt and handed them to Marsha. Smiling, she looked me up and down, checking out my blue shorts and tank-top. “Not bad, you’re looking pretty good.”

I had started at 220 pounds and weighed in that morning at 195, so I knew that it wasn’t entirely empty flattery. I stood a little straighter, my chest out a little farther, my smile a little brighter.

Marsha rolled her eyes heavenward, shook her head and grinned even more. “Okay, big guy, let’s go over the pre-race checklist.” She glanced at my race number pinned to my shirt and checked to make sure it was secure. “Race bib in place. Have you stretched?”

I nodded.

“Shoe laces double knotted?”

I looked down. “Check and check.”

She handed me a jar of Vaseline. “Time to grease up.”

The Vaseline went around the armpits and inner thighs. Constant rubbing from the singlet on the upper arms and from the nylon shorts on the inner thighs could cause some serious chafing. Especially the inner thighs. I didn’t want to end up walking around like a tiptoeing, bowlegged cowboy after a long day in the saddle. And no, those mid-thigh, spandex running shorts hadn’t come into vogue yet.

Next, she handed me a couple of band aids. “Okay, get those nipples covered.”

The same friction principal applied there. Those little nubbins could be turned into small mounds of raw flesh from the constant chafing.

Marsha peered closely at her race course map. “I’ll be waiting at the 10, 15 and 20 mile markers to see if you need any extra water, Vaseline and stuff.” With that, she gave me a quick kiss and a smile. “Good luck, my big stud. You can do this; I’ll be waiting.” She then moved back into the crowds lining the roadway and gradually disappeared into the throng.

As for myself, I had my own mob of excited, chomping-at-the-bit runners, gently swirling around me. Then a hush slowly fell over the crowd and hats came off as the strains of “O Canada” floated around us. As the last notes faded into the cool morning air, the beginning chords were struck for the” Star Spangled Banner.” As the two host country’s National Anthems came to a close, a thunderous roar arose from the runners; the excitement from the thousands of runners was palpable.

A pause, then the sound of the starter’s gun from near the front of the runners. It took me over five minutes to get from my position near the rear of the group to the official starting line. We couldn’t move until the hordes in front of us started, and then a slow walk until the tightly packed throng gradually began picking up speed. The crowd of 5,000 marathoners slowly made their way down the closed, four lane highway, unwinding like some gigantic human accordion.

Five miles later we entered the Detroit/Windsor tunnel. Runners were still grouped together, laughing and joking, adrenaline and excitement still coursing joyfully, voices echoing in the huge underground chamber. Soon we were exiting on the U.S. side of the river and entering Detroit.

By the ten mile mark the runners were spread out, no longer talking and joking, having found their running rhythm and pace and, hopefully, settling in for the long haul. Marsha was there with the crowds lining the curb, jumping up and down and waving. I felt great. I had to resist the urge to laugh and run over and hug her.

At fifteen miles I was right on target, hitting each mile in 8:30, give or take 5 seconds. I heard Marsha in the crowd before I saw her. “You’re looking good, John! Keep going, you’re doing great!”

And I felt great. I made sure that I hit every water stop to stay hydrated. And every few miles there would be musical groups set up in front of businesses and along the roadway—trios, quartets, high school bands—playing different types of ethnic music, entertaining the runners, keeping our minds off of our growing aches and pains.

At twenty miles I was still clocking the same pace as I had the first mile, still strong. I had been passing runners for the last several miles, runners who had misjudged their pace and were beginning to fade. Marsha was back to jumping up and down and waving and yelling. The crowds lining the roadway were becoming denser as we neared Belle Isle, where the marathon would finish. Her yell echoed in my ear. “Go, John, go! I’ll see you at the finish!”

I crossed the small bridge onto Belle Isle and began the last few miles of the race. At just over twenty-three miles, my legs finally tired; my body could no longer get rid of the lactic acid buildup in the muscles. It wasn’t serious, no cramps, just a leaden feeling in my legs, same effort expended but a slowing pace, what some runners call “hitting the wall.”

Finally,